Bloody Poetry
by Bellum Gerere
Summary: Prompt fills for badthingshappenbingo. Mostly Witcher and Dishonored, but other fandoms may sneak in. Tags/characters/etc will be updated as needed! (trying to alternate - odd-numbered chapters for DH and even-numbered chapters for Witcher)
1. Dishonored - Wound That Would Not Heal

_ok so there's...A Lot of things happening here. i know that (at the time of me writing this) i still have 'grand words' to finish and edit, not to mention the frankly ridiculous backlog of prompts already in my inbox, but i saw someone else doing this challenge and it sounded so interesting that i couldn't resist. for those unfamiliar, the basic concept is participants get a 'bingo card' where each square is a prompt, and the goal is to fill them out in such an order that you get a bingo - or, if you're an overachiever like me, finish the card and do every prompt. the card i received is on my tumblr (yennas) if anyone's curious what prompts i got, and i'll be posting an updated version with every chapter crossing off the ones i've finished! y'all are also more than welcome to request some of the prompts with certain characters/pairings, though i'd ask that you limit the fandoms to witcher or dishonored, since that's just what i feel most comfortable writing right now_

 _also, i know that right now with only this first prompt up there are no witcher fills even though it's in all the witcher feeds, but don't worry - i've already gotten several as prompts with witcher characters and have ideas for more! this is just the first idea i had that felt concrete enough that i thought i could write it the way it feels in my mind. in addition to chapter titles i'm going to list the prompt and the fandom so if y'all want to skip to a certain prompt when i've got more of them up, or only read for one of the fandoms, it'll be easy to do so –bel_

 **The Empty Set (Dishonored – Wound That Would Not Heal)**

The last thing she remembers seeing is Corvo's face.

Glazed over in the wash of red that covered her vision, it is, spotted with blood and with considerably more emotion in the expression than she is used to seeing out of him in public. And that _is_ where they are, after all, right in the middle of the gazebo where anyone could come across them. She wants to reprimand him, remind him that the guards will be back at any moment and finding the Empress in the arms of her Royal Protector will only confirm the rumors that have been flying around court for the past decade. Neither of them needs that—but she knows, in the back of her mind, that it's a ridiculous thing to be thinking, that appearances shouldn't matter when she still feels the phantom blade twisting in her gut and she knows she only has moments left.

Emily. She needs to be thinking about Emily.

She is finding it increasingly difficult to think about anything at all.

~oOo~

The Outsider cuts her heart from her chest, and there, in the Void, the hole still bleeds.

~oOo~

 _The heart of a living thing_ , he calls it when he gives it to Corvo, but from where she is watching it doesn't look like one. He's….modified it, she supposes that's the word for it, until she can barely recognize it as human, let alone hers. But it has to be. Corvo grips it tighter in his hand and she feels the pull in her empty chest, tugging her towards him, coaxing words from somewhere deep in her. Things she doesn't know she knew.

And she knows— _everything_ , suddenly, the force of the knowledge so strong that she can hardly breathe. (She tries not to think too hard about what it means that she still has some kind of physical form here. Thinking about that would lead to hope, something she can't afford.) Corvo's fingers, when he strengthens his hold on the heart—her heart—are slightly crooked, and even though she hasn't seen them, she is painfully aware of the new scars on his arms, of the burns. Six months in Coldridge Prison have not been kind to him. She wonders if he ever thought of her when he was there. In the way his eyes widen when he hears her whispers, the way he stumbles slightly, losing his footing every time she speaks, she finds her answer.

 _What have they done to you?_ Even as she says the words, feels her vocal chords shift and vibrate with them, they drift away, lost in the Void with the rest of her. She can feel pieces of herself dissolving slowly, starting at the corners of her consciousness and working their way inward towards the ragged edges of the wound. She doesn't know what she is becoming, but soon, she fears, there will be very little of Jessamine Kaldwin left.

~oOo~

Sometimes, he sleeps with her heart clutched in his hand, pulled close to his chest as though he wishes he could tear his own out and replace it with hers. Those are the only nights he sleeps peacefully. On those nights, she sits on what passes for ground in the Void, great slabs of some black rock she wouldn't be able to put a name to even if she cared to try, unbuttoning her blouse and pulling it far open enough that she can examine the dip between her breasts. It looks just as red and angry as it had the day the Outsider had put it there—the only time she's seen him, even here in his realm. (It seems, she thinks, that his apparent proclivity for meddling in the lives of humans, at least, if the Abbey is to be believed, does not extend to an interest in those already dead.) If she looks closely enough, she can see the slick sheen of her ribs through layers of muscle. If she runs her fingers around the edge of the hole, they come back red and damp.

Sometimes she tries to call out to—someone, anyone. Corvo, the Outsider, Emily. Just the thought of her daughter, taken by assassins and locked up who-knows-where, makes the hole pulse with pain, and she wonders if her own heart beats any more unevenly in return, if Corvo can tell the difference. He doesn't seem to be paying as much attention lately. His focus is unwaveringly on the living. She wonders if he simply can't allow himself the luxury of remembering her, if thinking about her for even one unguarded moment would mean breaking down completely.

She isn't sure if she is imagining it, or if the mask has truly…changed him somehow. Made him not the Corvo Attano she had known, but some strange foreign thing, a man whose penchant for senseless violence is going to tear the whole city apart if he isn't careful. Somewhere deep down, past the ragged edges of her flesh, she knows she should care. It's _her_ city that's crumbling, after all, _her_ hard work that's going up in flames, washing away in rivers of plague-infected blood. But it's difficult for her to care about anything except the feeling of his rough fingers when he runs them over the heart, staring at the gears inside as if he will see her if he looks closely enough. These days, it is the only thing that tethers her to the world of the living.

~oOo~

One night, when he returns from the Boyle mansion and collapses onto his thin mattress in the attic of the Hound Pits, he is less reluctant to hold what is left of her. He presses his lips to the thin glass covering the hole in her heart and she can tell he is shaking. "I killed her," he whispers, his breath fogging the glass. "I killed her, Jessa. I didn't mean to. I just—she figured out who I was, and she would've screamed if I hadn't—"

He sighs, lets the hand holding her drop to the threadbare green blanket he's lying on top of. "More people would be dead if I hadn't done it," he says, more to himself than to her (does he even realize she can hear him, that some part of her consciousness still exists to hear in the first place? She doubts it). "It was the only way."

She can hardly feel the tip of her tongue anymore—the sensation in most of her extremities faded long ago, and she grows closer to true nothingness every day—but somewhere on it is a dry remark about how, after all the guards he's murdered or left unconscious to be eaten by rats, after he branded the High Overseer and left the Pendleton twins to rot in their own mine, after he's seen firsthand the drastic rise in the city's weeper population as a nearly direct result of his actions, it's killing _Waverly Boyle,_ of all people, that has made him feel even the slightest bit of guilt. If she were alive she would have told him that, she's sure, but she's trying to focus on the sensation of his skin and she realizes, with something of a jolt, that he's not wearing his signet ring anymore.

It makes sense. He's the most wanted man in the Isles, and besides, they'd probably taken it from him before he even landed in Coldridge Prison anyway. But it's this, more than anything else, that makes her realize she will never get him back.

~oOo~

Only once had Jessamine Kaldwin visited Kingsparrow Island when she was alive, back when the construction on the lighthouse was just beginning, but even as she is now, a piece of preserved muscle tucked inside the Royal Protector's worn-down coat, she can feel that things are different. This is no longer just a lighthouse, it's a veritable fortress, with defenses to rival the Tower itself, and Corvo cuts through them all like they are nothing, reprogramming Sokolov's horrible devices with a skill she didn't know he possessed and leading the people he believes to be his enemies right into their traps. They die in instants, vaporized into nothing. They are not even people to him anymore, she thinks. Only obstacles.

 _Everyone knows you were screwing the Empress,_ she hears Treavor Pendleton say when Corvo finds him, badly hurt in the gatehouse. She never knew the youngest Pendleton in life; his brothers had been the ones in Parliament, and Treavor rarely appeared at functions where they were also in attendance. It is the first thing she has ever heard him say. It is also the last. The crossbow bolt that Corvo places neatly next to the bullet hole ensures that. She still has a body in this damned Void, even if she can barely feel it anymore, and when she looks down, the front of the shirt she is wearing—the shirt she died in—is soaked crimson.

The new High Overseer, Teague Martin, is the only one who does not die by Corvo's hand. By now, she is too tired to be surprised.

~oOo~

He saves Emily. She will give him that much. Without him, she would have been dragged right off the top of the lighthouse, dying with those who had conspired to save her. Corvo's coat is soaked through with more than just rain as Emily embraces him. It has only been a few months, but she looks….different than Jessamine remembers. Older, and not just in years.

"The others are all dead, aren't they?" Emily says. The sound of her voice is so familiar it makes what is left of her _ache,_ but the tone is all wrong. The words are all wrong. And all she can do is watch, a sick dread rising where her heart used to be. "That's alright. I was going to have them killed anyway." She grips Corvo's hands tighter. " _I'm_ going to be Empress."

Somewhere, deep in the Void, the hole that has burrowed its way into Jessamine Kaldwin pulsates and bleeds.

 _ever since i played this game for the first time, a couple things have really interested me: a high-chaos corvo who still neutralizes (almost) all of his targets through non-lethal means, and the idea that jessamine can definitely see everything that is going on, if parts of her are still present enough to be in the second game. this is kind of my first attempt to write about those things, but there will probably be more in he future. anyway i'll be over on tumblr crying about how jessamine deserved better if anyone would like to join me_


	2. Witcher - Cauterizing a Wound

_so this is the first of the squares i got as a prompt on tumblr, specifically requesting a situation with geralt and ciri. we're going with the 'ciri as empress' ending of tw3 here simply because i wanted the fact that they're out hunting monsters or whatever to be a rarer occurrence than it would be in the 'ciri as a witcher' ending. this is post-blood and wine also, but the ending there wouldn't really have an impact on this, so imagine whichever one you want -bel_

 **Under the Knife (Witcher – Cauterizing a Wound)**

"Geralt, are you really sure this is necessary?"

He stilled with a bottle of White Gull in one hand and a strip of cloth torn from a spare shirt in the other, his quest to sterilize the end of his knife momentarily forgotten. When Yennefer had insisted he take it ("you never know what you'll run into out there," she'd said, with a very pointed glance at some of his nastier scars), he'd thought she was just being ridiculous. Overprotective. Which he supposed she could afford to be, now that they'd settled down for good and put the past behind them. Ciri seemed to think the same thing—he was a witcher, after all, and she was more than proficient with a blade, so what extra protection could they need? He was glad he had it now, though. This would be far more difficult to do with a sword.

"Yes, it's necessary." He didn't look over at Ciri as he spoke, choosing to focus instead on dousing the cloth in White Gull and running it over the blade. He'd made a small fire a few feet away from them—nothing huge, but enough for this purpose, and besides, he fully expected to be there for at least a couple of hours, until the pain faded enough for Ciri to walk. He would make sure they stayed. She would probably want to go right away, and he wouldn't have any of that.

This had been done to him once before. He had been young, and far more careless than he was now, and when a basilisk's talon slashed his arm he shrugged the injury off, bandaged it hastily and kept fighting. It wasn't until nearly an hour later that he suddenly realized he'd lost so much blood that he could barely stand. He had been lucky, then. Eskel had been with him, had known what to do and been much calmer about it than Geralt was, when he realized what the small blade he'd been heating over the flames was for.

Ciri was, quite decidedly, not calm.

"You can't—I don't know—give me some Swallow or something? Just a little bit? What's the chance it would _really_ do any damage?" she whined. He could hear her shifting behind him, moving so she could get a better look at the slash on her upper thigh. She had been incredibly lucky, already, that it hadn't hit anything major _,_ that the only reason they had to do this was because they were half a day from the nearest large town and this was safer than bandaging it and hoping she didn't bleed out on the way there. She'd have a new scar, but when had that ever bothered a witcher? ( _She's not a witcher, she's the Empress of Nilfgaard_ , a voice in his head whispered, but he ignored it. Considering its placement, no one in court would ever see it anyway.)

"Very high. And even if it didn't, it might still hurt more than this will," Geralt said, holding up the knife that he'd just finished sterilizing before he held the tip out over the small fire, turning it over to make sure it heated evenly. With his free hand, he rummaged around in his pack until he extracted the bottle of wine that had been gifted to them by the vintner they'd just finished a contract for, and passed it to her.

"Here. It's not very strong, but it's better than nothing. It'll distract you, at least."

"Thanks," she said dryly, but a moment later he heard her uncork the bottle and take a long drink. He let himself smile for a moment before returning his attention to the knife, waiting another minute to withdraw it from the flames and fully turn to her. He had expected it would be more difficult to look, but the expression on her face had changed from the fear he last saw to one of grim determination, one that looked far less out of place on her.

The wound itself didn't look as awful as it had earlier, though it was still wide, and gods-knew-how deep, and sluggishly bleeding. Some of his own scars twinged in sympathy just from looking at it. But he couldn't let her see that. By this point, she was surely old enough that seeing him panic wouldn't be enough to set her off as well, but he didn't want to take that chance.

"Let this be a lesson to you," he said gruffly instead, pulling aside the torn edges of her trousers so he would be able to position the blade where it needed to be. "Pay more attention. You can't rely on your powers for everything."

"How was I supposed to know there would be a _bruxa_ in that cave?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. He didn't reply, reaching instead back into his pack to pull out a strip of leather for her to bite down on. He was glad, now that he'd brought it, as he was with the knife—at the time, he simply hadn't thought it worth the bother of taking it out of the pack. Ciri took the strip, looking at it distastefully. "Is it really going to hurt _that_ much?"

"It might." It was nothing, he supposed, compared to a cut on one's face—he would know—but he didn't want to underestimate the amount of pain she'd be in. Better to take every precaution. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be, I suppose." She put the strip between her teeth and closed her mouth around it. She grabbed the blanket she was lying on to anchor herself, balling up the fabric in her fists. He watched as she took a deep breath, then nodded at him.

He was thankful, not for the first time, for his ability to keep his hands steady as he pressed the knife to her skin, counting to a slow three and then pulling away as quickly as he could, praying it was enough. His ears were ringing in what he was sure was an unconscious attempt to block out her screams, and he tried to ignore the smell of burning flesh, instead focusing on her fists as they slowly uncurled. She reached up and pulled the strip of leather out from between her teeth, letting it drop to the blanket.

"You okay?"

"I think so." She was staring resolutely at a spot above his head, forcing herself not to look down. "I'll be fine, anyway. If we rest for a bit."

He nodded, setting the blade down near the fire to be cleaned later. He couldn't stand to look at it now. They were quiet for a few moments, as he examined the wound to make sure it had sealed properly. Then—

"Geralt?"

"Yeah?"

She finally looked back down to meet his eyes and exhaled roughly. "What are we going to tell Yennefer?"

 _i don't actually know one single thing about cauterization besides what i looked up to write this so sorry if anything is inaccurate lol_

 _my bingo card is on my tumblr (yennas) if you search the tags 'bloody poetry' or 'badthingshappenbingo' if you want to make a request! i have a few more already planned (i can post a version with those marked off if anyone wants) but there are a lot of squares still open!_


	3. Dishonored - Parting Words Regret

_wow...more of This (by This i mean corvojess and pain ajdklajkafl)_

 **Two Days Early (Dishonored – Parting Words Regret)**

It wasn't until his fourth month at Coldridge Prison that it truly hit him that Jessamine was gone.

Being locked up in the highest security wing had, ironically, given him plenty of distractions, excuses not to think about it. He was alone in his cell, but there was a constant stream of guards coming and going all hours of the day and night—not that he could tell which was which, anyway, considering he didn't have a window. Still, there was no shortage of things to look at. He memorized all the guards' routes, figured out which one was which under their helmets. Their voices all sounded the same in the great echo chamber of the main hall, but he learned to tell them apart by the patterns in their speech and the heaviness of their footsteps. Useful information if he wanted to break out, though he'd given up hope of that months ago.

The only time he was even out of his cell was when he was escorted to the interrogation room by an ever-revolving retinue of at least four guards. If his sense of the passing of time was still accurate, it was a weekly occurrence which lasted for hours. Burrows himself often made time to be there, as did the High Overseer, and lately, they had both become more and more insistent that he confess. To sign the papers for a crime he didn't commit. To lay his head quietly on the block.

He complied, in a certain sense of the word. If they wanted him to go quietly, then quietly he would go.

This approach, despite the satisfaction it brought him to see Campbell and Burrows' frustration with him increase, was not the easiest on his body. It started with his fingers, bruised and broken under increasingly large hammers. Unlike the others, the torturer didn't seem to care much whether or not he made it through the interrogation in one piece. As long as he could hold a pen well enough to sign a confession, he would be deemed fine. Sometime recently, though, he'd apparently decided hammers weren't enough. Then the irons came out.

At first, the burns were confined to his upper arms—not too noticeable, easy to hide with the coat they hadn't even bothered to take from him when they threw him in the cell. (They must have been confident, he thought, in their ability to break prisoners so thoroughly that escape would be the last thing on their minds.) Lately, though, their location changed with every session—his forearms, his thighs, the crooks of his elbows and knees. Those were the words; he had usually only just regained the ability to bend one of his limbs without pain when they'd bring him back and ruin another one.

It was on one of those days, when he was thrown back into his cell with marks up and down his left arm, that he truly realized what had happened. The thought had slipped, unbidden, into his mind—if Jessamine could see him like this, she would be furious. She'd find the torturer and have him removed from his post, or worse, and she'd insist on tending to his wounds herself, as best she could, despite what others might say.

But none of those things would happen. Jessamine was gone. And he might as well have killed her himself, because he had let her die.

~oOo~

The last time he'd gotten to see her— _truly_ see her, alone and unbound by her status, they had fought. It had become, after more than a decade of doing it, laughably easy to find a way into her chambers and remain unseen. By that point it had also become a near-nightly occurrence, and the other guards had stopped asking questions about where he went at night, though the rumors continued to spread, volatile as ever. Though the whispers when he walked down the tower halls and the side-eyed glances he got from members of Parliament had by no means decreased in number, Corvo had gotten so used to them that he didn't let that deter him from spending as much time as he could get away with in Jessamine's chambers.

Most nights, it seemed he wasn't the only one who thought that way. But two days before he got on a ship and left Dunwall, when she'd sat him down on the bed and given him the news, he suddenly wasn't so sure.

"I—" He had to pause, clear his throat as quietly as he was able, because she'd well and truly caught him off-guard. There was no reason for her to be sending him away, not now, not like this. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Jessamine sighed, turning from where she'd been standing in front of him to pace the length of the bedroom. She was always pacing when she was upset. "Corvo, if I thought I could send anyone else, I would," she said, and the way his name sounded on her lips momentarily distracted him yet again, as it did every time she referred to him as anything other than _Lord Protector_ , even in private. "But I fear there's no one here I can trust like you. The whole Empire is watching, waiting to see what I'll do in response to the plague."

"Which is exactly why I should be here. With you." _You and Emily_ , he thought, though it remained unsaid. Some part of him had always been reluctant to acknowledge the truth of that matter. If he didn't say it, if he didn't even think it, then no one else would find out, and that would be safer for all of them. He held tight to that notion, ridiculous as it was. "Anyone could decide that now is the perfect time to strike out at you."

"If I do nothing. If I barricade myself in the Tower and wait it out, and see what's left of the city afterwards." She stopped by the window for a moment, hovering unsteadily. The room was stiflingly hot, but they were both reluctant to crack the windows, as if the plague could spread through air, creep into their lungs. For all they knew, it could. It seemed every day that some new symptom presented itself in the unfortunate people it took down.

"But if I send my own Lord Protector…" She turned around, walked the length of the bed so she could cup his face between her palms, surprisingly cold. "They'll know I'm taking this seriously."

He didn't want to react to her like this—like her speaking to him in that tone, touching him so gently, meant that everything would be fine—especially when he knew it wouldn't. But it was hard, harder than anything he'd ever done, to look up at those pleading blue eyes and remain unmoved. "Perhaps a little too seriously."

She drew back, raising her eyebrows, as if startled by the sudden turn in him. More convincing than he'd thought, apparently. "I—Corvo, you can't possibly be angry about this—"

"I'm not." And that much was true, at least; he could never be truly mad at her, not when she thought she was making the right decision. "I…understand. But that doesn't mean I like it."

A laugh escaped her, though it sounded brittle, as though it would break at any moment. She didn't smile. "I didn't expect you to," she said quietly. "But I don't see any other way."

They were silent for a few minutes, both not quite looking at each other, though not away, either. She was the first one to break, moving to sit beside him as she reached up to pull the pins out of her hair—a sign of how much she'd been thinking about it, if she hadn't already taken them out. She wasn't acting like she expected him to stay, but he knew she wouldn't want him to leave. She would want him to spend as much time with her as possible before he got on the boat—but suddenly, he couldn't sit in that stifling room any longer, couldn't look over and see how close she was to tears.

"I should start preparing, then," he said, and she didn't try to stop him when he stood and slid one of the windows open, sliding out onto the ledge beyond it with practiced ease. There were no last-minute words, thrown hurriedly behind her, and when he turned around to look at her one last time, she was already gone.

~oOo~

They barely exchanged two words on the day he left Dunwall, too concerned with appearances and the sensitive nature of his journey, but she did make one small concession: she wore her hair down.

~oOo~

"This is your final chance, Corvo," Campbell said, looking down at where he was shackled in the chair while Burrows paced back and forth behind him, occasionally stopping to lean over the desk. "Sign the confession and let me give you the rites to put your spirit at ease."

If he hadn't already decided not to say a word to either of them, that he would either die silent or not die at all, he would've told Campbell exactly what he thought of his rites—of the whole damned Abbey, for that matter. But the torturer put the iron to his arm, in the crook of his right elbow, and he couldn't help but groan out in pain, his voice rough from months of disuse. The sound caused Burrows to look up from whatever he'd been so steadfastly examining. "That's enough for now," he said, dismissing the torturer with a wave of his hand. "Get out. Let's give the man some time to think."

 _I've already had all the time I need_ , he thought. Part of him wished they would just get it over with. Shoot him and be done with it. Death couldn't possibly be more painful than what he was experiencing now—the physical pain of new and barely-healed burns, and the memory of Jessamine a deep, blunted ache in his chest. Would things have gone any differently if he had refused? If he had told her over and over again that it was a bad idea until, maybe, she believed him? Or would Burrows have still chosen that moment to grasp at power, and he would be sitting here no matter what?

It was hard to think about that. Hard to think about anything. So instead he let himself fade into the throbbing of the new burns, Burrows droning on in front of him, and the blessedly quiet recollection of Jessamine's voice.

 _tbh i'm not nearly as happy with this one as i am with 'the empty set' but here we are anyway. might try and expand on this one later if i have time because it feels a bit cramped_

 _anyway i'm still taking prompts on tumblr! (i might need to post another updated version of my card to avoid doubles though...whoops)_


	4. Witcher - Flashbacks

_sooo technically nightmares and flashbacks are two totally different things but these are flashback-y nightmares so i'm saying it counts. and it counts double if they bleed over into the daytime too right? anyway to save time we're just gonna say that this takes place in the same universe as 'under the knife' except now the ending of b &w matters and it's the one where dettlaff dies (or one of them anyway) –bel_

 **Night and Day (Witcher – Flashbacks)**

It was hard for Geralt to get a full night's sleep at Corvo Bianco. He didn't know exactly why it was—he was, financially speaking, more secure than he'd ever been in his life, not to mention more comfortable, with an entire vineyard to call his own. Ciri was safe in Nilfgaard, or as safe as one could be in Nilfgaard, and she visited more often than he suspected Emhyr was aware of. And Yennefer—Yennefer was always next to him, and they hadn't truly fought in months, and some part of him was beginning to wonder if he was, in fact, becoming _too_ comfortable, if the long peace was a sign of something worse yet to come. But as time wore on, and nothing particularly exciting happened except for one or two clandestine visits from Ciri, he finally started to feel at peace.

That was when the nightmares started.

At first they were innocuous enough—the kind of bad dreams that everyone had. He was used to chasing and being chased in real life, so even though he sometimes woke up with a racing heart, he didn't think much of them, and they didn't impact the life he'd built for himself. They were gone only minutes after he woke, and even if pressed he wouldn't have been able to recall their contents with any sort of clarity.

As the weeks progressed, though, they slowly but surely became more disturbing. It started small. The nameless terrors he was forced to fight became monsters, ones he'd faced all too many times and, occasionally, even barely gotten away from. Those, too, transformed, until he was being haunted nightly by the faces of Eredin, of Vilgefortz, of Dettlaff van der Eretein, whom he'd forced one of his closest friends to kill. (He hadn't seen Regis since then, either, and that thought was now painfully pushed to the forefront of his mind.) Every worry he'd ever had, every battle he'd ever fought, all tugged into his waking hours.

In the mornings, he would try to put them out of his mind. He'd think about them for a few minutes, let the thoughts run their course and disappear, and pray that would be enough. It never was. They lingered in his mind, resurfaced at the most inopportune moments, when he wasn't able to be by himself, to hide his reactions from people. Some of the workers had already taken notice. Unfortunately for him, Yennefer had too.

"Geralt, if you don't tell me what's wrong, how am I supposed to be able to help you?"

He closed the book he'd been reading (or attempting to read) with a sigh and looked up at her. She was sitting across from him at the table, not paying attention to her own reading because she'd been studying him so intently. He'd thought he would never again be uncomfortable under her scrutiny, but he'd gotten so little sleep the past few days that he found himself easily becoming irritated by it.

"Couldn't you just read my mind and find out? That's what you always do anyway."

He knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say. Her face closed off, eyes devoid of emotion as she snapped the book shut. The sound was quiet, but it still managed to echo in the large main room of the house. "I assumed you didn't want me to," she said coldly as she stood. "I assumed we were past that. Forgive me for thinking otherwise."

"Yen—" he started to say, but she was already gone, and the door swung behind her, letting in flashes of the late afternoon light. He knew he was being stubborn. He should've just told her, but he'd tried so hard to keep her from shouldering his burdens, to take them on himself as he felt he should. If he'd been more open, he had no doubt she would've figured out a way to help him. And it would be easy for her, with her extensive knowledge of magic, to think of something to try, even if it didn't work. He was going to have to come up with one hell of an apology to get out of this one.

~oOo~

He left the house and took a walk around the farthest reaches of the vineyard, and when he came back, to his surprise, Yennefer was there, sitting at her previously vacated spot at the table. She didn't look at him when he came in, but he saw her stiffen, grip her legs just a little tighter where her hands rested on them. There was a glass on the table in front of him. Even with his heightened senses, he couldn't tell what was in it. He took his seat across from her and waited. It would be best, he thought, to let her speak first. After a moment, she did.

"When I first started staying here—when I moved in—I…" She paused, cleared her throat, staring at the table like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was rare for her to be so uncomfortable talking about something that she wouldn't even look him in the eyes. To him, she'd always seemed unflappable. "I thought about Rivia often. At first it would only be at night, but after a while it got worse. This was the only thing that was letting me sleep." She nodded towards the glass in front of her.

Geralt was dumbstruck, immediately slammed with guilt. He hadn't even known. Yennefer had always been good at keeping her feelings to herself, but this was beyond anything he could've imagined from her. "Why didn't you tell me?" It didn't seem like the kind of thing he should be asking her, but he needed to know. He'd thought they were beyond keeping secrets.

She sighed, and finally looked up at him. Her lips twisted into something vaguely approximating a smile. "You already had enough to deal with," she said. "Besides, I took care of it. And if this helped me, it'll help you." She nudged the glass forward just a touch, then settled her hand back on her leg. He glanced at it distastefully for only a few seconds before he turned his attention away.

"I could've helped you."

"I know." She laughed a little. Something had softened in her eyes since he'd seen her a few hours ago. He hoped it meant she wasn't still upset. "And I can help you. This _will_ help."

Slowly, keeping his eyes on her, he reached out and picked up the glass. The stuff seemed to coat his throat going down, and he still couldn't tell what it was. When he set the empty glass down, she smiled, fully this time. "Things will be a lot easier," she said ruefully, "if we just start helping each other."

 _tbh i feel like the end of this is kind of anticlimactic but i'm trying to keep these prompts chill? or as chill as something like this can be lol. i might also expand this one in the future because i really enjoyed writing it_

 _still taking prompts over on tumblr, though i have several that i've already got ideas for so i might have to post an updated card lol. it's probably obvious by now but i'm trying to alternate fandoms between chapters so there's not too much of one fandom, though depending on what prompts i get or come up with ideas for, that might change. i've got it planned through the first nine or ten though probably_

 _(also i swear to god i'm still working on grand words, i'm just also doing nanowrimo - or trying to hit the word count across all my projects anyway - which means i'm working on Everything to be able to hit those word goals, and just happened to finish this first)_


	5. Dishonored - Definitely Just A Cold

_ok with a prompt like this idk if i could've gone anywhere else...so here we are with more sad corvojess shit. this time it's a sad au instead of sad canon though so there's that –bel_

 **The Empress's Last Resort (Part 1) (Dishonored – Definitely Just A Cold)**

It started, as it always did, with a fever.

At first, Corvo didn't even notice. It would've been the height of indecency to touch her in public—even in a casual manner—and lately Jessamine had taken to spending the nights alone, sitting at her desk and poring over reports on the plague. He could tell it was wearing her thin; he saw the lines of worry that had all but carved themselves into her face. After a week of such nights, he snuck into her office through the window and insisted she get some sleep. He even took the liberty (though it felt more like routine at this point) of accompanying her to bed, and it was only when she pressed her forehead against his shoulder, pulling the thick blankets tighter around herself, that he realized just how warm she was.

"Corvo, I'm fine," she insisted, swatting his hand away when he tried to gauge her temperature. "Just stressed. I thought you said we were going to sleep."

She sounded so exhausted then that he relented, rolled over and drifted off, sure that it was nothing.

A few days later, he woke in the Empress's chambers to an empty bed. It was a strange occurrence; normally he was the one who had to shake Jessamine awake and then slip out before anyone realized he was there. When she shuffled back in from the bathroom, with the telltale deadly pallor of someone who'd just been sick, he jumped out of the bed and went to her immediately. Again, she brushed off his questions with a quick "I'm fine" as she pulled clothes out of her wardrobe.

There was a thought beginning to form in the back of his mind, and he wasn't sure if he should voice it—what if it only upset her more?—but as the seconds turned into minutes he felt it struggling to be heard, and so—

"Jessamine, you don't think it's possible that you—?"

"No." She spoke with such an air of finality that he was tempted to take her at her word, to let it alone and not ask again. "Corvo, the Tower's been all but locked up for weeks now. There's no way I could possibly…"

He understood why she let the statement trail off. Even though she was so sure it wasn't true, neither of them wanted to say it, speak it into existence. Besides, he tried to reassure himself as he climbed out the bedroom window, she was right. No one who wasn't cleared by security could enter the Tower anyway, and with the recent increase in outbreaks, security had only gotten tighter. Jessamine had all but stopped receiving visitors, and only interacted with those in Parliament and on her council. The plague wouldn't have been able to get anywhere near her. He just had to keep believing that.

~oOo~

Two days after that, the coughing began.

It was innocuous enough, the first few times, and the fits were over in a few seconds. She'd cough into her elbow, excuse herself politely, then continue with whatever she'd been doing. She conducted herself with such poise that no one would even guess that something bigger might be wrong. But as the next couple of days passed, the fits grew longer and more frequent, until one day she told Corvo to find her assistant, cancel all her meetings, and then return to her.

It was exactly the kind of thing he'd been dreading hearing from her. But he did it anyway.

When he returned to her room—into the office and through the windows, as usual—she was sitting on the side of the bed, facing the bookshelf that hid the door to the safe room. The Empress's Last Resort, they called it in the rumors. He wondered if that was what it would become now.

She didn't look at him when he rounded the corner of the bed to kneel down in front of her, trying to get at her eye level. His hands hovered over her own, clasped in front of her, wanting to touch but not daring to, not until he knew what she was going to say.

"I think," she began slowly, "that you were right."

It felt as though the ground had dropped out from under him; he could no longer trust that he would remain steady on his feet, and he was thankful he was already kneeling. When she did finally look at him her mouth was pinched into a line, her eyes shining and damp. She didn't want to say it any more than he wanted to hear it. "Are you sure?" he replied hoarsely. "There's got to be something we can do, some test we can run to figure out if you've really—"

"I do," she interrupted. Her hands were shaking, and he wanted so badly to take them in his own, hold them until it stopped. But he couldn't. There was already a voice in the back of his head telling him not to touch her, that he'd already been far too exposed to it—to her—and he hated himself for it. "Last night, after you left, I went to see Anton. When he told me, I…I hoped he was wrong. That all his tests and examinations had somehow produced a false result. I think he did, too. But he ran them all more than once. And every time, they said the same thing."

"No," he whispered, both to himself and to her. She pressed her hands against the outsides of her thighs to still them, and he watched the movement with a strangely detached sort of pain. Even when she was younger, she'd always felt that she needed to be strong for other people, to not let them know when she was hurting. It was, he supposed, a good trait for an Empress to have, but it stung to see her use those tactics now. "And there's nothing we can do?"

"He said we could try putting me on heavier doses of elixir and seeing if that would help, but in all likelihood it's too late to reverse its course." Her voice was hollow, and she looked back down. Corvo suddenly realized that he would have to be the one to give this news to Emily, and something in his chest pulsed raw with pain. "The best thing to do at this point is to isolate me, and pray that no one else gets infected. I know, I don't like it either," she said, seeing the way his face twisted in a grimace. "But if I get someone else sick—if we can't contain it…"

 _The city goes up in flames._ Things were already bad enough outside the Tower walls. If the strain that had somehow gotten to Jessamine spread through the rest of the Tower, that was it for Dunwall. There would be no one left to lead them.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he reached out and grabbed her hands, clutching them tightly. Her fingers were thin, but her grip on him was equally strong. The edges of her ring pressed into his skin, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "What do you need from me?"

Jessamine swallowed thickly. Her next words seemed to come out slower than anything she'd said so far, as though they were being forcibly dragged out of her.

"Lock me in the safe room. And don't let me out, no matter what you hear."

 _ok this is actually going to be continued with another prompt both because it was already getting kind of lengthy and because there's a great opportunity to use one of the other squares i have to finish this off - a couple of them would fit really well here. so the next dishonored prompt i post (ch 7) will be the second part of this_

 _as usual, still taking prompts on tumblr, but idk how quickly i'll be able to get through the couple i already have? nanowrimo is still a thing so i'm working on a lot of different projects at once_


	6. Witcher - I Have Your Loved One

_honestly i kinda hoped i'd have this card done way earlier but this one has been fighting with me for months lol…the square was requested by eileniessa and even though it took me thirty years i've really enjoyed this one! we all know how i feel about Angst tho. i decided to go with a sort of non-verbal version of the prompt instead of using the line outright so hopefully that comes across lol -bel_

 **Stars (Witcher – I Have Your Loved One)**

The streets of Novigrad are just as disgusting as he remembers, and as Geralt winds his way across the city to the Chameleon, he's not surprised to find that his distaste for large cities like this hasn't waned one bit. But he's spent all day with Triss, trying to track down any lead, any clue as to where Philippa might be, and he's exhausted. Now, nothing sounds more welcoming to him than a bed, even if it is above one of the noisiest establishments he's ever set foot in. There's something comforting about it, though he's loathe to admit it—the idea of being surrounded by allies, after spending so long traveling alone. He'll put up with the racket for it; the annoyance is a small price to pay.

He keeps his hand tensed and ready to reach for his swords as he walks, put on edge by all the recent happenings in the city. He had been hoping, after Kaer Morhen, that they'd be able to avoid Novigrad entirely as they made their final preparations, but now he berates himself for thinking so foolishly. He'll do whatever it takes; he's already made that clear enough. Suffering the city for a few more weeks should be nothing, but he is tired now, and wants nothing more than to have a good rest once all is said and done. Hopefully he will be allowed that luxury.

The Chameleon is as vibrant and noisy as ever when it finally comes into view, and when Geralt sees it he finally lets himself relax, if only a little. Once Dandelion had gotten the establishment up and running, Geralt has never had any problems there—the occasional fight breaks out outside, as would happen with any tavern in any city, but nothing has ever happened that made him feel particularly unsafe. He can defend himself more than adequately, if need be, but he doesn't foresee that becoming an issue.

When he steps inside, though, he can tell right away that something is wrong.

To the untrained eye, there's nothing different about the scene; it looks like any other night in the Chameleon does. But Geralt can sense the tension, and his worries are only confirmed when he sees Dandelion at the back of the room, worrying his lip between his teeth with one hand propping up his chin. He doesn't seem to be paying much attention to the goings-on around him—unusual, even on the worst days. Geralt can feel himself tense up again as he makes his way across the main room and back to where Dandelion is standing.

"What's going on?" he asks, not wanting to waste time guessing in case it's something serious. "Is it Priscilla?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, she's fine." Dandelion's brow furrows, his mind clearly elsewhere. "It's only—you haven't heard from Yennefer, have you? She's supposed to be checking in with us from Oxenfurt every day, and we haven't heard anything today."

The worry begins to creep up in his throat slowly, but its taste is no less acrid despite its pace, and Geralt finds the weight of his swords at his back a welcoming reassurance. "Are you sure she's not just late?" he asks, infusing his voice with a nonchalance he does not feel. "Trying to get word to us out of a city filled with witch hunters isn't the safest enterprise."

"No, it's not." Dandelion nods in agreement. "You're probably right. It's just that she's always been so punctual about it before."

The sudden bout of yelling that breaks out near the door captures Dandelion's attention, and he moves towards the fight without another word to Geralt, leaving him in the corner alone. For a moment all he can do is stand there, letting Dandelion's words replay in his head. _Yennefer. Late getting in contact._ Even under normal circumstances, it would be an unusual thing. She has always been a methodical person, meticulous in her ways. But much as he hates to admit it, Dandelion is probably right. She would not want to put herself in unnecessary danger now, precarious as their situation is—and if that means missing a prearranged communication in order to stay safe, it's what she would do. He tries to slow his breathing as he leaves the main room and makes his way up the stairs to the relative quiet of the third floor. For all he knows, there is a message from Yennefer waiting for him there.

He doesn't see it at first, when he enters the room and unstraps his swords from his back, leaning them carefully up against the wall by the bed. It isn't until he's halfway out of his armor that he catches the glint out of the corner of his eye—something sitting on top of the chest of drawers. He takes a step forward to investigate it, and his blood runs cold.

There, on the dark wood and still attached to its velvet ribbon, is Yennefer's star pendant, the diamonds glinting in the low light of the room's single lit candle—a sign that should have tipped him off immediately that something was wrong; he's certain no one would have any reason to be in this room aside from the two of them. But it isn't just the sight of the pendant that sets his heart racing: next to it, frayed at the edges, is a patch clearly pulled from the armor of a Redanian witch hunter. Its meaning could not be clearer.

A message, then, waiting for him. Just not the kind he had wanted.

 _yes this is cliffhanger-y but like i've said before, most of these might be up for continuation at some point sooooo_

 _if anyone wants to request a square, the most recent version of my card will be in the post about this prompt on my tumblr! for this card i'm only doing witcher and dishonored. if you request a prompt that's already been requested by someone else, or that i'm already planning to fill, i'll probably still do a second fill – it'll just go in the 'moments like this' prompt collection instead!_


	7. DH - Cradling Someone In Their Arms

_hello here i am again with more Sad Corvojess…this is a continuation of the plot introduced in chapter 5, since this square seemed to follow really well with that one and i kind of want to wrap up that thread a bit sooner than 'doing it outside the card' –bel_

 **The Empress's Last Resort (Part Two) (Dishonored – Cradling Someone In Their Arms)**

Corvo did as she asked, albeit more reluctantly than he had ever done anything in his life. Jessamine's servants brought up bread and dried fruit and water and stockpiled them in the safe room, which was cleaned to the point of spotlessness. Everyone knew it was a fruitless endeavor—a clean room had never stopped anyone from contracting the plague, let alone saved them once they already had it—but they continued anyway, if only to have something to do with their hands. Corvo joined in on the work eagerly at first, hoping it would take his mind off what he was about to do, but he had no such luck. Jessamine's imminent death was the only thing on his mind.

The day they finally finished their work and prepared to move her into the safe room was almost more than he could bear. He had tried day and night to force himself to accept the circumstances, and just when he thought he'd finally been making some progress—he remembered Emily. Remembered that the Isle weren't just losing their Empress, that he wasn't just losing a lover, but that she would lose a mother as well. Jessamine wanted them Emily kept as far from her as possible, in hopes that the plague wouldn't spread to her, though Corvo could see it broke her heart to do so. He was the one who had to break the news.

She hadn't taken it well—he would have been worried if she had. No, she cried and yelled and accused him of lying, demanding to see her mother immediately so she could prove him wrong. When he would not be moved, she locked herself in her chambers for a day and refused to come out, no matter how many people asked or tried to bribe her. Only the promise of one final visit with her mother eventually lured her out. It was the last thing Jessamine wanted before they shut her in the safe room, and who was he to refuse his Empress?

He didn't stay for the visit, though. He knew it would break whatever fragile threads of self-control he had left.

As soon as Emily had been spirited back to her room, tears streaming down her face, Corvo entered and found Jessamine sitting on the bed, facing the safe room's door. "I should feel afraid, I think," she said softly, and Corvo stopped a few feet away. "But I don't. I don't feel much of anything right now."

He closed his teeth around a pained breath and stepped into her line of sight. When she looked up at him, there were tear tracks on her face as well, and he wondered how much of what she'd just said was a lie. "Promise you won't let me out," she insisted as she stood. "Promise me, Corvo."

He couldn't speak for the grief that had blocked his throat. He nodded instead.

It was the last time he saw her alive.

~oOo~

For the first few days after that, nothing happened. The safe room was so quiet that once or twice Corvo almost got suspicious enough to unlock the door, despite everything Jessamine had told him, despite her insistence. The worst thing he heard, on those instances he lurked outside for hours trying to pick up on any indication of her wellbeing, was more of the same coughing. The fits hadn't increased in length, or in severity, and that alone was enough to allow a single, impossible spark of hope to settle deep in his chest—one whose existence, as he should have known, would soon be snuffed out.

It started a week after they'd locked her in, seemingly out of nowhere. One day the coughing was the same, the next day it sounded quite distinctly…waterlogged. As if she had somehow escaped the tower and swallowed half the Wrenhaven. And it wasn't just the sound of the coughing, either; no, the thing that frightened him—and everyone else—the most were the groans. Quiet, only just barely audible if he pressed his ear against the bookcase concealing the safe room, and _pained_ , so pained it hurt him by proxy. He could feel the ache in his own chest as surely as he would if he had been there himself, as if he had gotten himself sick to stay with her.

He couldn't get sick, though. Emily needed him—would need him in the days and weeks and months and years to come. It had been accepted by then that, likely within the month, she would become Empress, and much as it pained Corvo to think of it, she would want him beside her, he had no doubt. All he could do until then was listen to the hacking and the groans and pray that she would be able to hold out just a little longer.

And it was almost as if the Outsider were laughing at him, because she didn't make it to the end of the week.

Corvo had made a habit of checking the safe room every morning, as much as was possible; he would lower the sound of his breathing until he barely took in any air in order to hear her, to discern any signs of a change in her. One morning, he lingered longer than usual, growing stiller and stiller until he finally realized that the reason he hadn't been able to tell if she was better or worse was because he couldn't hear anything at all.

No one would have been able to stop him then, though the guard that burst through the door of Jessamine's chambers when he heard the heavy scrape of Corvo prying open the safe room door certainly tried. Any strength the man might have possessed was no match for the sheer power of Corvo's desperation. He was through the safe room and back to the small alcove that held the bed faster than he'd thought himself capable of—and was faced with the horrible reality that, as he'd feared, he was too late.

He opened his mouth to say her name as he sank to his knees in front of the bed, but all that came out was a soft, pained noise. Corvo had seen plague victims before, more than he could count, but seeing her like this was particularly terrible—the blood streaked down her face and dried to rust, the stains of it on her once-pristine clothes. He pulled her towards him without much thought, ignoring the buzzing of the insects that surrounded her, and she felt, horribly, the same in his arms. Just as she had the last time.

Just as she never would again.

 _so this is the first thing i've finished writing on my Fancy New Laptop, which actually holds a charge so i can take it places and write…i've been planning to replace it for like a year so this is big for me lol, and hopefully it means i'll be able to get some more things done now that i can write outside of my apartment? we'll see i guess alkdfajsflkj_


	8. Witcher - Rage Against The Reflection

_hello it's prompt time again! this one was sent in by a tumblr anon, thank you for this! you're right, this is a good one for yennefer and i enjoyed it a lot. this takes place That Night in thanedd u know lol - bel_

 **Mirrors (Witcher – Rage Against The Reflection)**

The dormitories at Aretuza—the ones that students normally stayed in, that had temporarily been outfitted to hold guests—had always had a sort of coldness about them, a kind that Yennefer, after spending so many years a student in them herself, found hard to describe. It wasn't just a physical sensation, though the rooms themselves were notorious for their inability to hold in heat. No, this was the kind of cold that chilled her down to her bones, so that even when Geralt had fallen asleep she could not drift off herself because of it. She shifted restlessly, surprised that her constant tossing and turning hadn't yet woken him, and eventually, after what had to have been at least an hour, she relented and stood.

There was a black robe tossed carelessly over the back of the chair at the desk; she picked it up and draped it over herself, pulling it closed tightly. No matter how many layers she wrapped herself in, though, she would not be warm. There was too much here, too many memories she would rather stay dead and buried. And she would be coldest sitting at the window, where the wind swept through thin cracks in the panes, but that was where she chose to sit anyway. Focusing on the physical sensation would, perhaps, take her mind off of things.

As it was, she didn't make it that far.

She was crossing the room when a glimpse of something caught her eye—movement, up against the far wall. When she stopped and turned to look, it was only her reflection in the room's single full-length mirror. Nothing she would have normally worried about. But being there, in that place, made it all come back in the most unpleasant way. Yennefer was all too familiar with these particular mirrors.

She remembered staring into one just like this for hours on end, back when they had first worked their magic on her—had straightened her spine, evened the tilt of her shoulders. Back then, she had hardly been able to believe what she was seeing, to reconcile the image of the girl in the mirror with the one she had always been. It was easy to get caught up in it for hours at a time, and back then, she had thought herself nothing short of perfect. Now, it was if she saw all her imperfections, slight though they might be in comparison. She saw the way one of her shoulders was still just the smallest bit higher than the other, how her chin sat slightly farther back than it should have and interrupted the flow of her jawline, the irregular shape of her brows and the narrowness of her lips.

None of these things _mattered_ , of course. She doubted anyone else would truly take the time to notice them unless they were looking for them. But as she stared in that mirror, feeling for all the world like that young girl again, they were all she could see.

Without even realizing it, she had stepped forward until she was barely a foot away from the glass, staring at herself far more closely than she normally would. It was something about this damned place, she thought, that made her feel this way. It wasn't her, it couldn't be her, she was long over what had happened by now. There was no reason it would still be affecting her this far down the line. But she couldn't deny the things that were welling up inside her—the anger, the remnants of crushing self-doubt that she had held onto for so long. They wormed their way back to the forefront of her mind as she stood, clenching her shaking hands into fists.

And then, without thinking about it, one of them lashed out.

The sound of the glass shattering woke Geralt more quickly than Yennefer thought it possible for anyone to wake—one second he was sleeping in the narrow bed, none the wiser to the fact that she had gotten up, and the next he was on his feet beside it, frantically searching for the source of the disturbance. He found it in her a moment later; she stood in front of the broken mirror, stony-faced and with her fists still clenched by her sides. The left one was bloody. It wouldn't have taken a genius to piece together what had happened. She expected him to ask, though—to question her reasoning, try to get an answer out of her that he likely knew she wouldn't want to give.

But he didn't, and Yennefer had never been more grateful for his silence. Instead, he walked over and gently uncurled her fist, examining the places where her knuckles were covered in her own blood. "It's fine," she said, surprising herself with how steady her voice was. "I can heal it." And, in the quiet, she did just that, using thin tendrils of magic to pull out shards of broken glass so small she couldn't see them, then healing over the wounds they left behind. A simple process, one that took less than a minute once she concentrated on it.

At least now, she didn't have to look at herself.

She couldn't bring herself to look at Geralt either, though, once she had finished and let her hand drop back to her side. All she could do was stand there, acutely aware of his presence next to her, hoping that he wouldn't say anything about her little outburst. Things had been going so well up until that point—better than she had ever dreamed things between them would go. If it was ruined by her own ghosts, she would never forgive herself. But to her great surprise, he didn't seem interested in discussing it much.

"It's late," he said, turning around. "Come back to bed."

 _idk if there's even room for this in canon but canon is Fake anyway so. also i love the idea of like Quietly Supportive Geralt...like he sees her problems but understands she doesn't want to talk about it so instead he just does things that show her he's there? i cry everytime_


	9. Dishonored - Locked Up And Left Behind

_this is the beginning of another one of those 'short series within these prompts' that i accidentally ended up doing because my mind runs away with these things. this one will probably end up being four or five parts/prompts, so the next several dishonored prompts after this will continue this story, since i like to do them as close together as this format allows. after i played dh2 i was really interested in exploring a darker version of the world, and also a more power-hungry high-chaos emily, so that's kind of what this is about. also this little mini-series as a whole was heavily inspired by hozier's song 'movement' so i highly recommend listening to it (even if it's not in conjunction with this because it's just a good song lol) -bel_

 **The Mercy of Bad People (Dishonored – Locked Up And Left Behind)**

On the fifteenth day of the Month of Darkness, Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin the First is arrested for heresy.

It's a strong word, Corvo says when the High Overseer appears in her throne room late at night to make the accusation, and one they should be careful about using against the Empress. The last-ditch effort to protect her is made just as much for himself as for her, but she's taken aback by the fact that he even bothers at all—things have been tense between them since she killed Delilah, and she knows her decisions weigh heavily on him. Now his Mark is gone and hers seems to burn fire-bright against her skin when she removes the wrap she's taken to wearing over her hand. There's no point fighting it, she thinks; considering she's spent the better part of the past several months cutting a bloody swath through most of Karnaca, she's surprised the Abbey didn't come for her sooner. And besides, if Corvo could escape Coldridge without a Mark, it would be nothing for her with one.

She disagrees with the Overseers, anyway. _Heresy_ doesn't even begin to describe how she spends her nights.

~oOo~

When they take her to Coldridge, they march her right past her father's old holding place in cell block B, as if they believe doing this will somehow make her more contrite, more willing to confess to the Outsider's influence and renounce her wicked ways. All it does is make her wonder what lengths they'll go to, considering she's actually put into a cell on the top floor of block A, rendering the trip both completely unnecessary and an absolute waste of everyone's time. "I'm still your empress, you know," she says to the Overseers who surround her as they march her down the halls and up several flights of stairs to the prison's highest level. "And the second the High Overseer comes to his senses and acknowledges that, I'll have you all executed. Him, too. Just for good measure."

It is perhaps, she acknowledges, not the best idea for her to be threatening those who will likely be guarding her for days to come, but now that the initial surprise of her second usurping in less than a year has worn off, she's angry. She's _furious_. And she knows she could take them all on, and it would cost her nothing, would be no effort at all. But she doesn't. She lets them lock her up in cell A20 and after her little outburst, she keeps her mouth shut. If she wants to get out of this without spilling blood—and that's the best course of action, she knows, the thing that would redeem her the most in the eyes of the public—it would be best for her not to say anything else.

Emily _wants_ to, though. She wants to so badly that by the time they get to her cell there's blood on the inside of her mouth because she's been biting on her cheek. Its taste coats her tongue and she lets it—it's a distraction, anyway, and a welcome one. The blood fills her mouth and spills over her lip, creating a trail down her chin, enough that the guard who's unlocking the cell stares at her with wide eyes when he turns back around. "What did you do to the Empress?" he asks, and when the Overseers notice the blood and try to stammer out excuses, she grins. Their superiors will be hearing about this, and the thought mollifies her. They _were_ specifically instructed not to harm her.

With little to do once the Overseers leave, she turns behind her and examines the cell that will be her home for the foreseeable future. It's nicer than the one Corvo was thrown in, she'll give them that. Perhaps they know how to treat an Empress after all, even one faced with the charges that have been thrown against her. The stone floor is spotless, and there's a cot with a thin mattress, a shelf above it—a joke, she thinks, seeing as the only things she has are the clothes on her back—and a toilet in the corner that looks cleaner than she'd expected. She wonders if the guards here had orders to prepare this cell in advance. She wonders if they knew who they were preparing it for.

Emily kneels in front of the toilet, no longer caring much what she looks like, and spits the blood into it. When she lifts her arm to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, she leaves a red smear across the Mark. It's strangely fitting, and for a long time she simply sits and stares at it. Her trial is set for two weeks from now. It's enough time, the High Overseer hissed in her ear as he led her out of the tower, for her to come to her senses and sign a confession willingly—or for them to torture one out of her. But she'll be long gone by then. Emily sits down on the cot, facing the bars of her cell. All that's left to do is wait.

 _so i've actually had this particular idea forever, and i'm already planning to take these prompts and use them as a basis for a longer multi-chaptered fic—probably what will happen is i'll intersperse flashbacks from during the events of dh2 and cut it up into chapters as needed so it doesn't end up getting too long_


	10. Witcher - Bloody Nose

_ok so like three people requested this one but i'm only gonna fill it once for now, and i might do another iteration of it in 'moments like this' once this card is completely done. this is probably the most obvious route to take with this prompt, but it's also the first one that came to my mind, so i'm doing it this way lol. also it's more fluff than angst at the end but i needed something chill right now lmao -bel_

 **Broken Pieces of Tile (Witcher – Bloody Nose)**

Even though they've theoretically entered a kind of retirement, when everything should be peaceful and they can relax in their gifted vineyard without any problems, it isn't long before Geralt and Yennefer manage to run into trouble.

Most of the trouble is monsters—problems for Geralt and Geralt alone, though Yennefer rolls her eyes when he insists she'd be of no help, and brews his potions and decoctions, and keeps a small stash of healing herbs and supplies right inside Corvo Bianco's front door for those nights when he stumbles home late from a contract, tired and bleeding and about to pass out from toxicity. She seems to want to make a point out of it, and he lets her do so, practically conceding outright at some times. If she were not there, things would be far more difficult for him, especially now that Regis is gone and he would have had to take all this on himself. She helps, in a way he knows is quieter than what she would prefer.

But the idea of losing her strikes fear into his heart the likes of which he's never known. He has spent too much time not knowing her as of late to even consider that he might not have the chance to make up for it, through some stupid mistake of his own. So he is overcautious—could anyone blame him? Even Yennefer herself, though she's made it quite clear how she feels about the whole arrangement, was silent when he finally broke one night and confessed his reasoning. She has argued with him about it less since then. He wonders if she was surprised to hear him say those things, to hear that he fears losing her. It would be a fair reaction after all they have gone through.

So, for the most part, she keeps quiet and helps to heal him when he returns from contracts. Usually, all that means is mending a few cuts and scrapes. There is not much left in Toussaint that can hurt him, not truly—or so he thinks, and it is that attitude that becomes his downfall.

The damned giant centipede had come up right under him. In hindsight, he should have been able to hear it coming, but he had been so engrossed in battle with several others from the pack that he had failed to notice, and he's paid dearly for it. His left leg seems to be not only broken, but bleeding as well, and if he looks closely enough he can discern shards of bone poking through his trousers, pressing against the fabric. He doesn't want to look at it closely. Geralt has seen a great many things, and few of them good, but this, despite all reason, feels worse than any of those—because he knows what will happen when he returns to Corvo Bianco. This is no shallow cut, no sprain. This will not be so easy to heal.

He manages to make it back to the vineyard without incident, though getting on and off his horse proves to be more of a problem than he had initially anticipated. Every little movement is painful; even drawing breath too deeply is enough to jar it sometimes. Still, he is no stranger to the pain, so he grits his teeth and makes it through the door because truly, there is nothing else he can do.

Yennefer is in the bedroom off the main hall—he can hear her when he pushes the door open, standing and setting a book down on the table next to the bed. That she doesn't come rushing out immediately is a testament to how little he has truly needed her help before; there is some part of him that enjoys knowing he has her trust, even though now it stands to do him more harm than good. He lets the door close and collapses into one of the chairs at the long table, resting his forehead against the wood and taking deep breaths.

"Geralt?" he hears her say, but her voice sounds as though it is coming from across the vineyard, and when he hears her come out of the bedroom her footsteps are immediately followed by a gasp. She is beside him only seconds later, and he feels the wash of her magic over him and worries—as he always seems to lately—that it will not be enough. His memories of Rivia are hazy, but they remain nonetheless. It was not enough then. And every time she exerts more power than necessary, those memories come flooding back.

He passes out.

When he wakes the wounds are healed, as he knew they would be, and though his own condition is not his primary concern, he still takes a brief second to marvel at how the bone has knitted back together so cleanly, how she's taken the time to clean the worst of the blood from his skin, though bits of it are still rust-red and dry around where the break had been. But as soon as he's taken stock of his ability to move without pain he's on his feet, looking for Yennefer.

He checks the bedroom first, stopping briefly to pull on a loose tunic, and when it comes up empty he heads upstairs to the room they've converted into a study of sorts, one wall lined in bookshelves—and that, too, is empty. He tries to fight the panic rising acid-hot in his throat and instead makes his way to the bench around the side of the house, where she likes to sit when the sun becomes too hot for her normal settee. It's there that he finds her, bent over at the waist and holding her hands in front of her face.

"Yen?" he asks, and when she raises her head to answer him there's blood on her face, dripping from her nose down her chin and staining her hands, and he freezes up. the fear overtaking him so sharply for an instant that he's unable to do anything but stare. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and straightens up, brow furrowing as she looks at him.

"Stop staring at me like that," she snaps after a moment. "I'm fine."

The denial is right there on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back, choosing instead to sit down on the bench next to her, gently taking her arm in his hand and turning her to face him. She goes willingly enough, though there's still a hint of annoyance in her posture as he pulls one of the sleeves of his tunic down over his wrist. He reaches up to dab at the blood left on her face, being as gentle as he could, and all at once her expression softens, and she reaches up to grab his hand. Her breathing is unsteady, and a drop or two of blood still drips from her nose to land on her lips, but she is there, and so is he, and they are both so very _alive_ —and it doesn't seem so important anymore.

 _ok this maybe wasn't as angsty as it could have been/as bthb calls for but grad school is kicking my ass and i've mostly been writing Sad Nia Shit when i feel like writing at all so i needed something a little lighter (just a little tho. i'm not just gonna stop writing angst lol). my favorite thing is nonverbal communication between them specifically, so i really wanted that in here adlfkajflk. only doing this version of the prompt for now but since i did get multiple requests i might eventually revisit this in my regular prompt-fills collection if i have time to!_


	11. Dishonored - Passing Out From Pain

_idk what to say so here's more of this AU alkfjalkjd. i'm really close to finally having a bingo on this card which i think is very sexy and cool of me -bel_

 **A Little Night Music (Dishonored – Passing Out From Pain)**

They've prepared the interrogation room for her. Emily hears some of the guards talking about it while she's pretending to be asleep, which, she's discovered, is an excellent strategy for eavesdropping, especially in a prison. For all it's built up in the minds of Dunwall's citizens, not much seems to happen in Coldridge, and most of the guards appear so bored that she can pick up on a lot of information even when she's clearly awake. At first they are wary about even glancing her way, particularly the ones assigned to actually stand guard outside her cell, but as the days wear on, the novelty of having an Empress in cell block A seems to fade, and the prison returns to what she assumes is normal. She's only been there once, before now—Corvo had all but begged her to let him take over the inspection part of her duties, saying that he'd already been there, he'd be able to handle it, and after what she'd seen the first time she was all too happy to oblige. Now, she regrets not being more familiar with the complex. Even when she does manage to escape the building itself, her lack of knowledge about her surroundings could have her dead in minutes.

When the guards come for her, she keeps her mouth shut this time, and it's only partly because she feels like her heart has climbed up into her throat. She's endured all manner of discomforts here, and in Karnaca, and on the Dreadful Wale, but she knows that whatever they're planning for her is going to be more than just asking her a few questions, and her assumptions are confirmed when they march her across the yard and she catches sight of several Overseers, stationed against the walls, watching her through the eyes of their masks as she passes. She can almost feel the hatred and anger radiating from their gazes, it's truly that potent, and she bites down on the tip of her tongue to resist goading them.

The guards all but drag her down the stairs leading to the interrogation room proper, as if they're eager to be rid of her—or to get her away from whatever the Overseers are here for. She has no doubt that the High Overseer himself is here, waiting to personally supervise the torturing of the Empress. Seeing his face when the door swings open is less than pleasant, but at least it's not a surprise.

"I'm glad you could take time out of your incredibly busy schedule to be here," she says as the guards force her into the chair and shackle her wrists to its arms. They leave her legs free, for now, but she knows they won't hesitate to restrain them if she even thinks about trying something. "Void knows what would happen if you let one of your lackeys here do it. They might be convinced to free me, and then where would we be?"

The man's eyes narrow, but he makes no direct reply other than to dismiss the guards and other Overseers from the room. The door swings shut and then it's just the two of them. The Royal Interrogator is conspicuously absent, and there's a large box next to the desk. She can't tell what's in it, and she doesn't dare use her Dark Vision here, for fear that they might be able to tell. Best to be careful.

"You made it very clear when we last saw each other, Your Imperial Majesty, that you would not be swayed from the ruinous path you have chosen." Emily raises her chin in defiance, looking at him with the stare she usually reserves for members of Parliament, when she's tired of their arguing. On them, it works like a charm. Here, it does nothing. "I've been brought in to change your mind."

"Again?" Emily lets herself smirk, show yet another gesture of defiance. She can't help herself—the Overseers are so ridiculously easy to get riled up, even those among them who claim to have more self-control. "You just said yourself how poorly it worked before."

"I did," he concedes, moving away from her and up the step that raises the desk a few inches above the level of the chair she's currently strapped in. "But I've come to the conclusion that you only speak that way because you lack the proper…motivation."

"Exactly. Motivation." She crosses one of her legs over the other, deceptively casual even though she still can't move her arms, and he watches the movement warily, hand on his pistol. She knows the pose well. "You could start by letting me out of these." She wiggles her fingers, pulling her wrists against the shackles as much as she's able. His eyes find her Marked hand and stay there, a disgusted sneer curling his lip.

"A lovely proposal, Lady Emily," he says as he stands besides the large crate and puts his hand on one of its seams, preparing to pull it open. "But one I'm afraid I can't agree to. I've got some other ideas."

Emily tries her best to keep the façade of calmness in place, but she's tense now, the tendons in her hands and wrists stiff, ready at any moment to fight. She doesn't know if Far Reach would be able to get her out of the chair, bound as she is, but Shadow Walk would do the trick, if she deems the situation dire enough. She will have to conserve enough energy to get herself out of the facility proper, though. "Do tell. I'm dying to know."

The phrasing seems to amuse him, because he smiles a terrible grin as he looks down, only briefly, to pull the sides of the crate apart. They must have only been bound loosely, because they fall apart with barely any pressure from him, and the device underneath them…

"How would you feel about a little music?"

Emily laughs. "Is that supposed to scare me?"

The music box is huge—bigger than any of the ones the Overseers had carried strapped to their chests during the plague. It has the same general shape, the same crank on the side that his hand is hovering over, but that's where the similarities end. It is almost laughably enormous. Her Mark burns just looking at it. "It should," the High Overseer says. "Do you know what this can do to a person? Especially one as Void-touched as yourself?"

Emily remembers, suddenly, the version of events Corvo had given her regarding the night he took down the Lord Regent. There had been Overseers with music boxes there, he said, and the pain they caused just by walking too close to his hiding spot when they were playing them was some of the worst he'd ever felt, worse even than anything that had been done to him at Coldridge. But surely that was only Corvo. He didn't have the relationship with the Outsider that she does—he had not embraced his powers as readily as she embraces hers, he had not been as eager to learn as she. She's powerful enough to survive this, she thinks. Whether she'll come out of it undamaged is a different question altogether.

"Many a witch in Delilah's coven was brought down by one of these," he says, gesturing towards it with one hand. The other has settled on the crank, gripping it tightly, preparing to turn. The thing seems to take on a terrible, pulsing life of its own, though different from the Void. The Void had never hurt her when she'd crossed into or out of it. The Outsider had never hurt her. "Powerful witches, reduced to nothing, some even pleading for death." He steps forward until he's against the railing separating them, gripping it with his free hand, looking her dead in the eye without any hesitation. "I will not grant you that mercy, Emily Kaldwin. Even if you beg."

"I wouldn't want it if you offered," she replies, smiling contemptuously. She can handle this. She can escape. Her fingers are already bending, hand tilting at the exact right angle to dissolve herself into smoke, and then—

He turns the crank of the machine. And she can't think anything.

 _who knows when this wreck of an AU will end lmao_


End file.
